


Count to Five

by SwaggerSlug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwaggerSlug/pseuds/SwaggerSlug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles counts to four. In the morning he counts to five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count to Five

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Please note that this fic deals with self-harm in a moderately graphic way. If you find this sort of thing triggering, you might want to skip it. Also please bare in mind that this is Stiles’ POV and he is perhaps a slightly unreliable narrator. Also there is an event which could be considered non-con or dub-con, but is limited to kissing. Also no beta-ing has occurred so mistakes may be lurking!

After Gerard Stiles is a mess of bruises and cuts. His face heals slowly and he spends every morning in the mirror pressing the pads of his fingers to the sharp curve of his cheekbone. The scabbing is itchy - like sand clinging to his skin. Grainy to the touch. His split lip heals quickly, but mouth wounds always do. The bruising that fans across the prominent arch of his ribcage looks like an aurora, spreading and shifting, turning from red and brown to green and yellow over the weeks that follow. Stiles doesn’t leave the house for fourteen days and doesn’t talk about it. There’s a look of relief on his dad’s face when Stiles goes to meet Scott for Lacrosse Practice. It morphs into barely stifled pride when Stiles assures him that it was his idea –that when school starts he’s gonna be ready for try-outs. First line is _his_ this year.

So Stiles meets Scott at the field. _No wolf powers_ he says, and, _You’ve still got me._

The medical tape tugs and itches against Stiles’ hipbone when he makes a pass; the stretch of his body and the prickle of sweat gathering along its edges pulls the bandage loose. When he has to stop to catch his breath he sets his hand against it and presses down. He feels soothed and grounded –anchored to the grass and the warm breeze and the sound of Scott laughing when Stiles calls him out for cheating.

“You okay man? Need a break?” Scott says, tipping water from a bottle onto his hair.

“Tired already? Where’s that wolfy stamina?” Stiles replies.

He presses down a little harder and thinks, _I did this. I did this. I can do this. I put this here. I did._

The mark lasts longer than anything Gerard Argent put on his body – if only because Stiles can’t stop picking it.

 

* * *

 

Self harming is typically viewed with an air of distain. It’s another one of those high-school clichés like the _Popular Athlete_. Or the _Glasses Wearing Bookworm._ Beacon Hills manages to subvert most of the adolescent archetypes; Jackson, while ticking ninety percent of the boxes for ‘Dumb Jock’ is neither dumb nor likely to wear a letter-jacket. He doesn’t sit with the cheerleaders (who funnily enough are neither popular, nor bitchy), and he doesn’t have a posse to stand sentinel while he slams people against lockers. He _does_ slam people against lockers. He _is_ a giant douchebag. He probably _will_ be named prom king. But he isn’t typical. His best friend’s gay for fucks sake.

Lydia is probably the closest embodiment of ‘Glasses Wearing Bookworm’ the school has given the likelihood of her making valedictorian - but she has twenty-twenty vision, a walk-in wardrobe the size of Stiles’ bedroom, and was, until last semester, the most popular girl in school. Then again Lydia throws on stereotypes like outfits and shucks them just as easily – fluid and collected – reinventing and remarketing in a way that would have even Madonna seething with jealousy.

Stiles is no different. He doesn’t embody your typical ‘cutter’. His wardrobe is bright colors and slogan t-shirts. The one time Erica had tried to put eyeliner on him he’d flailed so hard she stabbed him in the eye. He doesn’t like The Cure and doesn’t _get_ poetry. He doesn’t go at his arms with a razor while rocking against the bathtub. It’s not a ‘cry for help’ and it isn’t attention seeking. He seeks attention in other ways.

Stilesis a statistic, but he isn’t a stereotype.

He uses a scalpel instead of a razor – and it’s a practical choice. A scalpel is an instrument of precision. A scalpel leaves minimal scaring. A scalpel is clean.

His is one of those slim, steel affairs that come with disposable blades and a ribbed grip on the handle. You can buy them from any art supply store for about three dollars. He changes the blade every time, wipes his skin down with antibacterial wipes before and after, and always applies clean bandages until the thin cuts scab and hold. There are two locations on his body – his ankles and the meat of his upper thigh just below his hips. The left side of his body is more sensitive than the right, but the initial pain of the cut is minimal when using a new blade fresh out of its paper wrapper anyway. The part that he enjoys, _needs_ even, is the morning after when the cuts are still raw – red and puffy- when the shock of warm water from the shower beats against his marked skin and lights the area up with a bright, throbbing ache; hot and tight. That warmth persists for days; biting against him in lacrosse practice when his shorts rub against the wounds or during class when he sits hunched over his desk squeezing his ankles together while Harris mocks him and throws detentions out like confetti.

It’s the best kind of pain. A letter to the world saying _‘I did this, this was me’_ that he never sends but keeps in the top drawer like a promise. Like a hidden declaration. Like all those things you want to say to people but never can. Like knowing something about something that no one else does. Like writing a bucket list.

There’s a kind of power in it. Something like control.

And he’s careful. That’s important to note. Sometimes it feels like half the population knows Scott McCall is a werewolf. No one knows that Stiles likes to make himself bleed. Likes the healing process. Likes to push himself. Likes the ritual of the thing.

He never showers in public but even when naked you can only really see the scars under strong light. Stiles is pale and he scars pale. When he runs his fingers over his skin in the dark he can make out some of the deeper ones – the way the skin feels thinner and softer – like it’s been polished and shined.

Sometimes in the mirror late at night when he’s tired, just tired, he’ll look at his face. He’ll look at his face and think ‘I want to know what it would look like if I cut that piece of skin on the bridge of my nose. How would that look bleeding? Just a little. Just a small cut.’

He pinches at it. Marvels at how close the bone is to the surface and the way his skin moves over it when he frowns.

But Stiles is fine and sensible and knows better.

 

* * *

 

A pack of Alphas. Of course.

Stiles watches Scott throw an arm around Isaac as they limp across the road and  onto the McCall’s porch. He watches when Melissa opens the door and ushers them inside. He waits until the door’s closed and then waits a little longer with his jeep still running. There’s blood on his passenger seat that isn’t his and he knows he’ll have to get the carpet cleaner out from under the sink when he gets home. His heartbeat is overloud in his ears; he can feel the hard thump of his pulse in his throat.

When he gets home he fetches the carpet cleaner and scrubs at the seat until the rusty looking stain is barely noticeable. When he gets to his room he lays out a towel, antiseptic wipes, a bandage and his scalpel with a fresh blade already attached.

He slices across the meat of his ankle and watches the blood. He wiggles his toes to nudge the flow over the bridge of his foot -it twists over the raised lines of his metatarsals like a ribbon. Deep and rich and warm. Like wrapping himself up in a bow.

He cuts again a little deeper because it’s not cool to be a jealous asshole.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles counts to four.

One: for the way Derek’s hand had felt against the swell of his shoulder.

Two: for the way Stiles had leaned into the touch. Swayed a little. Let that stupid, needy, desperate noise spill passed his lips.

Three: for the realization that had flickered across Derek’s face and the careful way he’d removed his hand and taken a step backward.

Four: for the shame. For the hot, queasy feeling in his guts. For the erection he’s been sporting intermittently ever since. For the way that, alone now, all he wants to do is touch himself.

Number four bleeds a lot.

He masturbates anyway.

In the morning he counts to five.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott isn’t oblivious no matter how much Stiles likes to think of his best friend as slower than him. That’s a dick thing to think, but Scott is better than Stiles in a hundred different ways and the knowledge that Stiles is quicker, sharper and more cutting lets Stiles feel that there’s still some balance in the universe. But Scott isn’t oblivious.

“Dude, are you okay? You smell like blood.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. So I saw you talking to Allison earlier…she ready to give it another go?”

He is easily distracted though.

 

* * *

 

When the Sheriff had given Stiles ‘The Talk’ at thirteen, he’d drummed the ‘no means no’ portion of it into Stiles with the same firm ferocity he’d used when talking about always using a condom. Respect and consent were important and Stiles _knows_ that. He does.

It doesn’t change the fact that when Derek had said ‘stop’ Stiles had kept pushing.

He’d whispered, “Come on, relax, just let me,” and Derek had exhaled against his mouth and then pushed in with his tongue. Had spread his fingers across the back of Stiles’ skull. Had tipped his head with firm but gentle pressure using his thumbs at the hard edge of Stiles’ jaw. Even when Derek had pulled away; panicked and spit slick, Stiles had let himself feel nothing but the fact that Derek _had_ kissed back. That Stiles had _felt_ Derek hard against his thigh. That even for all the wolfy control in his possession Derek’s pupils had been blown wide and his fingernails had felt sharp against Stiles’ hairline.

When Derek hissed, “You’re seventeen. I’m not doing this,” Stiles hadn’t let himself doubt. He’d gone to bed that night replaying the stuttering rush of Derek’s breath and how right it had felt against the skin of his throat. He’d stroked himself hard and fast to memory of Derek’s hips hitching against his…just once…just one quick roll of Derek’s pelvis before he’d startled back.

Stiles doesn’t punish himself for not listening. Maybe he should. No means no. But Derek had wanted him – _does_ want him.

He doesn’t punish himself.

So the universe does it for him.

He drives to Derek’s loft the next day and tells himself it’s just to talk. To lay his cards on the table. To say, ‘you’re kind of a dick, but I really like you anyway,’

He sits in his jeep and plans his speech. He thinks of all the clever ways he can spin this argument to make Derek see that it’s okay to want each other. Age is just a number. They could die tomorrow. What’s wrong with a little comfort? It doesn’t have to mean anything.

That’s when he sees Derek, shirtless and beautiful, leading a woman down the fire escape of the building. She’s wearing in a short red dress that hugs her figure and  black heels that wobble precariously as Derek curls an arm around her waist to help her down the final set of stairs. It’s an impractical outfit for ten in the morning on a Saturday. Stiles isn’t naïve; the woman’s long curly hair is a mess –hastily tied back in a bun that leaves fine strands hanging loose and wild. Her mouth is a mess of red; whether from stubble burn or smeared lipstick Stiles can’t tell. She pulls her hands through Derek’s hair and kisses him on the cheek before striding off leaving Derek looking debauched and hungry. Derek stares after her. Stiles stares at Derek. He stares until Derek’s eyes swing around to find his own through the jeep's dirt streaked windscreen and Stiles can’t _breathe._

He doesn’t remember the drive home. Doesn’t remember unlocking the front door. Doesn’t remember. Doesn’t remember.

It hurts to move for days. In the mirror Stiles hisses through his teeth as he diligently cleans the lattice work of cuts above his hip. They look ugly and raw and some of them are still weeping. The fourth time Stiles changes the bandages he thinks that maybe the brief rush of euphoria and the preceding hours of calm aren’t worth it.

 _You need to stop,_ Stiles thinks. _This is something else now._

He’s familiar with addiction.

He wraps his scalpel up in a wad of toilet paper and throws it away.

 

* * *

 

They’re alive. There all alive and the Alphas are gone and he knows it’s okay now. It’s over. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.

There are twin bruises around his wrists and his shoulders are stiff and sore from where they’d been pulled behind his back for the better part of three hours, but Derek and the others found him. They found him and he’s _fine_ dammit.

The house is empty – his dad’s working the night shift for the third time this week – too empty. He feels empty. His hands won’t stop shaking.

He searches the drawer in his desk; throwing papers and software disks and chewed on biros onto the floor until the drawer is bare and the scent of cheap dusty pine assaults his nose.

His scalpel isn’t there. Of course it isn’t - he threw it away. That’s fine. That’s okay. He crosses the hall to the bathroom and checks the medicine cabinet – the only razors there are the disposable ones; throw away plastic things that come in multi-packs. Then he sees the scissors sitting in a pot along side nail clippers and some ragged looking q-tips.

He flicks the lock and shucks his clothes, piling them up in a messy heap on the toilet seat. Naked save for his boxers he slides down the wall, pulls his ankle into his lap and spreads the scissors. They aren’t sharp like what he’s used to and the first pull does nothing but leave a raised red line against his skin. It’s been a while since he’s done this – he’ll stop again, he will, he’s fine – but he just needs one. One cut. Something that he can touch and say ‘I did this. I’m still here.’

Taking a deep breath he sets the cold metal against the skin and tugs, hard and fast. At first there’s nothing but then the flesh parts like a mouth and fills quick and fast with blood – it runs over the bony jut of his ankle in thick ropes and onto the floor tiles pooling quickly. Too quick.

“Fuck.”

He slaps his hand over the wound and stands awkwardly to pull the first aid kit down from the shelf. The blood’s making his grip slippery where it’s seeping between his fingers and dripping down his wrist. One handed he pulls open the kit but there’s no padding in there. No bandages. When did he run out of bandages?

“fuck fuck _fuck_!”

He grabs a towel off the handrail and presses it tight to the wound and slumps back down against the wall. It’s starting to hurt.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Stiles?”

_Derek._

Panic sends Stiles’ already elevated heart rate into overdrive.

“Y-yeah?” He calls out, lifting the towel a little to get a look. The cut is deep and wide and hasn’t stopped bleeding. The underside of the towel is saturated with it so Stiles hurriedly turns it over and presses it down again.

“Are you okay? You smell hurt.”

“You cannot smell me through the door,” Stiles says sounding near hysterical to his own ears, shit, “I’m fine, you can go now!”

The door handle jiggles.

“Seriously, I’m fine! Go away!”

“You’re bleeding,” comes Derek’s voice, lower and slightly muffled through the wood, “When did they cut you? I don’t remember seeing any blood at the warehouse.”

“What do you want Derek? I’m fine. Fuck off and leave me alone!”

Derek falls silent on the other side and Stiles is so grateful for the barrier between them. After a minute Stiles hears him shuffle away. Good. It’s been awkward as hell between them for months – he doesn’t need that right now.

Stiles lifts the towel, ignoring the tug of the loose fibers against the wound. The bleeding’s slowed down now, but the cut is gaping and nasty and Stiles doesn’t know how to dress something this big. He can’t go to the hospital – the other scars would invite too many questions. His first aid kit is woefully low on anything that might help. There are some novelty band-aids and a strip of gauze and his antiseptic wipes but that’s it.

Then the door smashes inwards in a shower of splinters and Stiles sits frozen, his teeth chattering minutely as Derek, bulky frame filling up the doorway, scans the room. His eyes flit from Stiles to the blood smeared on the floor, the bathtub, the cabinet handle, to the scissors lying open and incriminating against the tile and then back to Stiles, raking down his body to his bloodied hands and the dark slash across his ankle.

Weakly Stiles says, “You’re paying for that.”

Derek makes a complicated noise in the back of his throat and crosses the room in two easy strides. His hands are fisted into a small green bag which he pulls open before dropping to the floor next to Stiles and manhandling his ankle until it’s braced over Derek’s lap.

“This was stupid,” Derek says. He reaches into his bag and pulls out iodine, wet wipes, gauze, butterfly stitches and a thick roll of bandages.

Derek’s fingers wrap gently around his foot to hold it steady as he starts cleaning the wound. Stiles refuses to make a noise while he works, even against the vicious bite of the iodine, even when Derek says over and over; “So stupid.”

He leans forward to help hold his skin together as Derek applies the butterfly stitches. He doesn’t complain when Derek wraps the bandage too tight. Derek helps him to his room and sits him down on the edge of his bed, then heads back to the bathroom.

Stiles sits there for a long time. Lets tears that he has no hope of stopping roll down his cheeks to drip off his chin. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of water running, of cupboards opening and closing, of the washing machine turning on but it isn’t until Derek’s crouching down in front of him, face carefully blank but eyes tight with worry that Stiles allows himself to speak.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s kind of pathetic and maybe not even true, but Stiles can’t think of anything else to say.

“No you’re not,” Derek says, “You’re an idiot. You’re st-“

“-stupid. I know.”

Derek reaches out slowly and presses his knuckles against the bare skin of Stiles’ hip. When he looks down, sure enough, his boxers have dipped low enough to expose the mess of scars, old and new, normally hidden there. Stiles feels very exposed all of a sudden.

“Don’t do it again,” Derek says, carding a hand through Stiles’ hair.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

It’s not the most eloquent response but when Derek slips out the window long seconds later, Stiles can’t help but think ‘Okay. Okay.’

 

* * *

 

 

The woods around the Hale house are cool in the summer –the thick canopy providing shade and respite from the sun. Stiles didn’t think Derek would agree to take a walk with him, but Stiles needs to say thank you…he’s just looking for the right words. ‘Thank you’ has a habit of sounding both too big and too small.

Stiles frowns down at his arm where Derek has just slipped a rubber band over his wrist.

“What’s that?” Stiles asks.

“A rubber band.” Derek says, serious and flat like always.

“Yeah genius, what’s it for?”

Without warning Derek reaches out and stretches the band before releasing it to snap hard against the tender skin of Stiles’ wrist.

“Jesus Fuck!” Stiles exclaims, “What the hell was that for!?”

Derek Hale doesn’t fidget, so watching him shuffle awkwardly on his feet and wring his hands together is something…new. “I read about it. Every time you feel like you want to hurt yourself you should snap it until the urge goes away.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and peers through his eyelashes at him. “That sounds lame,” and Derek deflates and stiffens in turns, “but…does that mean you… dude, did you do research on this?”

Derek Hale also doesn’t blush. Usually. Huh. “You’re right, it’s lame. Forget I said any-”

“No, no, no!” Stiles interrupts, making a big show of pinging the band back against his skin. It really stings. “So it’s like a nicotine patch right? you wean yourself off slowly?”

“Yeah…Yes. Like that.”

“Okay.” Stiles says with a shrug. He’ll try it.

Derek puts a hand around the nape of his neck and starts steering them back in the direction of the jeep.

Stiles doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask what Derek was doing at his house that night. Or where he got the bag of first aid stuff, or how he knew how to use it. There are a lot of things he wants to ask.

He says, “You know I turn eighteen in six months, right?” because god forbid he leave anything alone.

Derek squeezes his neck tighter but doesn’t let go.

 

 


End file.
